On top of a cold, drizzle whipped, wind-tossed, tractor forsaken mud-bath of a hill in South Wales wavers the waifer-thin figure of Tim Burgess. Balancing a rapidly cooling mug of coffee in one hand, he amuses himself by trying to light a Marlboro into the wind (well-nigh impossible) and challenging a few Charlatan myths.
"I think it's funny when people say we're pale imitations of The Stone Roses," he laughs, somewhat surprisingly. "I think it's good when people are narrow-minded. The Stone Roses have probably been influenced by some of the same stuff as us anyway. I like them, they're good. They make noise and tunes which is what I like, so... Hey! I've done it!"
He triumphantly waves his lit fag in the sub-zero breeze. "And I always agree when people go, The Charlatans have only got one song. It reads funnier if I do. And in a way, because 'The Only One I Know' was the sort of crossover commercial success it was, maybe it is the only Charlatans song that some people know."
What about your reputation as miserable bastards who can't take a joke?
"Well, I don't really agree with that, because we all generally take the piss out of ourselves, we don't really take ourselves that seriously. Mind you, having said that we are a bunch of miserable bastards."
The thing is, they aren't. Burgess, the junior Mick Jagger who it's alright and rather easy to like, couldn't be further from his morose self description and yet he's got every excuse to grouch out...
1990 saw an awesome debut for The Charlatans, sneaking up from behind to steal The Stone Roses' thunder with two Top Ten singles ('The Only One I Know' and 'Then') a number one album, 'Some Friendly', and a triumphant European tour. But 1991 hasn't been so kind to the band. February's 'Over Rising' EP provided a creditable start, reaching number 15, but from then on things began heading downhill. First there was the US-tour, an admitted success which nevertheless robbed them of precious song writing months. Their Japan dates, unequivocally loathed by the band, took up the rest of the spring. When they returned in May, guitarist Jon Baker decided he wanted to quit. He stayed for their British tour while they found a replacement but then in August, just before the announcement that ex-Waltone Mark Collins was to turn Charlatan, Martin the bassist had a nervous breakdown. 'Charlatans Split!' screamed the News Of The World, and it seemed as though they might have actually got their facts right for once. But a collective girding of loins got the band into the studio and a new single, 'Me In Time', out for November. It peaked at a worrying number 28.
That difficult and long promised second album isn't scheduled for release until next spring, which is why The Charlatans are here at Rockfield Studios, but even that looks touch and go at the moment. There's only four days recording time left, and Tim hasn't even finished writing the lyrics yet, let alone got round recording them. Time is running out...
Recording Charlatans fashion seems a relatively angst-free affair, as an earlier guided tour of Rockfield reveals a large kitchen (offering such healthy and mostly untouched delicacies as, Salad and Mexican Beans - a plate of cold baked beans with tortilla chips stapled to the top) leads to a cosy video room, where various members of The Charlatans sprawl, seemingly permanently sofa-attached, gawping at MTV.
"I'd take you to the recording room, but there's a bloke in a shell-suit in there," Tim confides darkly. Persuaded that this is not an insurmountable sartorial problem, he leads the way across the outside courtyard and into the small, well-lit studios, Flood, The Charlatans' bearded Cockernee producer (veteran button-pusher for Depeche Mode, Nitzer Ebb, Nine Inch Nails and, fresh from mixing part of U2's 'Achtung Baby') is tinkling with some drum-beats at the flashing desk console. Manager Steve swears softly at his Super Mario 3 Nintendo machine, feet on the creaking coffee table, laden with overflowing ash trays, Diet Coke cans, music papers and guitar strings. Tim picks up a piece of paper. It's half of a Halifax advert, featuring a parka with The Who logo emblazoned across its back. "That's brilliant innit?" he enthuses. "I saved it for you," says Steve, benignly, eye fixed Nintendowards. The silent Rob and Mark are also engrossed with hand-held battles and don't even look up when Tim announces his desire to play some of the new songs.
He tears out his hand-written album tracklisting (headed "Flood Is A Nazi") from the studio notebook and hands it over. Ten new tunes: 'I Don't Want To See The Sights', 'Chewing Gum Weekend', 'Weirdo!', 'Can't Even Be Bothered', 'Vulture', 'Tremelo Song', 'The End Of Everything Etc', 'Not Even The Rain', and two as yet unnamed.
A balding engineer in (yes!) a shell-suit slots in a tiny DAT tape and an instrumental version of 'I Don't Want To See The Sights' booms out. Tim hops over to the desk to turn it up even louder. It's a noisy, Stones-type affair, a snappy single complete with grinding bassline and tambourine ("that's me," says Tim proudly) and, thankfully, it sounds ace.
Not that anyone seems to care although there's a bit of general abstracted head-nodding only Tim gets genuinely excited, humming his vocals and grooving in time on the sofa. Next is an equally fine, spooky, Doctor Who-derived untitled track - Tim's favourite on the as yet unnamed album.
"We were going to call this record 'Greatest Hits' or 'Paul'. Paul's a nice name," says Tim, musing on the difficulty of finding a title. Finally comes the urgent, conga-rumbling 'Tremelo Song' which sounds unsurprisingly more ropey, as they haven't got round to putting the guitars on yet. "I burp twice on that one," announces Tim. "I'm dead good at it. Listen." He lets rip. It's awe inspiring. "It's cos I drink Diet Coke all the time."
After a further tour, this time around the instruments -"this is the new Hammond, these are our crap maracas, this is a thing to go in front of my microphone cos I can't say my Bs and Ps properly" ? we head into the desolate, mist shrouded countryside surrounding the studio.
"I'll take you on the walk I went on yesterday," he offers. "I went on this walk yesterday cos I was really stuck on this line. And I thought 'The 'orse with one eye ... something something something."
We tramp up hill, view scenic farm machinery ("Let's nick it!"), attempt to strike up conversation with unimpressed sheep, and all the while, Tim smokes and talks with equal impressiveness. He's disarmingly confident, slipping in phrases like "an important group like The Charlatans" with such ease that they almost pass you by, and professing never to buy magazines that don't feature the band.
"I never read anyone's interviews but our own. I just don't find them interesting because I know I've always got something better to say." There is, however, a copy of a Charlatan-free music paper on the floor in his room, next to a rather intriguing list (from Smash Hits to Cosmopolitan - via the music weeklies) in his open Filofax of publications whose pages Tim presumably wishes to brighten.
He confesses to being a vinyl junkie, referring to LPs as "records", as in, "have you heard the new Intastella record?" He only buys CDs because there's no turntable in the studios, and he spends all his money in record stores.
"Guess how much money I've got? £1.27!" (his bank statement, also in his Filofax, reveals the more healthy sum of £328.20). He snuffles Muttley-style when he laughs, which is often, and he's an engagingly enthusiastic talker, though somewhat frustrating. Sometimes his butterfly mind flies off on a tangent for minutes and he forgets the question until it's repeated. When he doesn't do that, you have to sift through the pauses, laughs, "like's and "you know's to get to his meaning. And he talks around a subject. Ask about his lyrics and this is what you get...
"Are they dark? To be honest, yeah ... well, not dark in, like, contrived and well thought. I just think that, like, normality and, erm, eccentrics, I think are ... just sort of trying to get ... like, write that over. Just like people that you meet and
that, you know, weirdos (laughs). I don't know. May be, erm, less optimistic. Not in a negative way, but I dunno, maybe just like the general surroundings probably... I would have thought. Er ... yeah. I dunno. Sometimes you've just gotta be, like, not arsed about it. I couldn't, I mean, I wouldn't... (spits it out) I wouldn't call meself a fuckin' artist. Not at all (pause). I don't know, it's really hard to, like, analyse your own stuff, you know. I just think it's something that we've never done. It's always been like, erm, we've just done it and thought about a great meaning for it later on.
The great meaning of some of the rather strange lyrics scribbled in the singer's notebook seems, at first glance, obscure: "Ozones falling from the sky in front of me"; " There's no reason/ Although I can smell the government"; "Another happy lad with dirty pictures plastered on the wall/A British beach collection, a classic alcoholic argument". If he can't explain them, well, at least he must know which is his favourite.
Tim laughs a little embarrassedly and knots his bushy brows. "Weirdo', I like that one (sings softly), 'Most of the time you are happy/You're a weirdo.' Haha like the first lines of songs. 'Physically I resemble a vulture', that's, good, and 'This bloody city I don't want to waste another year'. I still like 'You're not very well' haha. Everyone always talks about being ill in this group. That's our favourite joke." Current ailments include Mark's black tongue, Robs sore foot and Tim's tendency to a bit hazy.
"Jon's a'right though." And Martin? `Well, he's fucked, inee?"
You mean his depression in summer?
"Yeah. What happened was we were just going to announce that Jon had left and Mark was joining when Mart got like... I dunno if I should tell you this, it sounds really daft... (pause) He's got a dog, right and he went to the shops to buy some food and he came back with like, ten tins of cat food and then didn't go out the rest of the weekend. Just sat on his settee. He hadn't really had a breakdown, he just didn't know what the fuck was going on. It was manic depression.
"I find it interesting in a weird way, but I didn't really ask him a lot about it, didn't go into great detail. Just asked him if he was alright. I don't know much about it. We just laugh at him to make it easier sometimes. He's alright now. The dog is too. It ate the cat food, haha."
He leaves his empty coffee mug at the top of a gale-torn hillock, wraps his ripped up PVC jacket closer, lights another tab and pads down another muddy footpath.
"It's been a shit year, 1991," he ponders. "I mean, Jon leaving... It was weird when he left, cos I really like him. And, er, I've not spoke to him since. By accident, we haven't ever talked. But I think he wanted to be in a group, that was ... signed to a label was too much for him in a way. He wanted to be in a group, play a few little gigs, release records, but not really be signed to anyone. I sort of understood it, you know. I suppose if you worked in a factory and you didn't enjoy it you'd leave, wouldn't you? And he wanted to do something else, so it's fair enough, really."
What about touring? You didn't enjoy Japan much, did you? "Nah. I just didn't enjoy it. The fans are really mad. They run up at you and then stop about this far away. Really ultra-polite. You can get scared of ultra-politeness can't ya? The last time I cried was in Japan. I was really low and really drunk. I threatened to hit somebody very hard with a big stick."
America must have been better. "They liked us in America, yeah. We didn't want to go though. It's really hard for us to get motivated about promotion stuff to be honest. Chat shows. Interviews are alright sometimes (bursts out laughing). One magazine called us "the most unprofessional band they'd ever worked with!" which I thought was dead good. It was Rolling Stone and basically what happened was we didn't get out of bed in time. They made a formal complaint to our American record company and our manager, and we got told off!"
1991 Has also been a "shit year" in other ways, according to Tim, like in music...
"Well there's not been anything really has there?" he frowns. "I saw Guns N'Roses at Wembley. They were alright (looks dubious). I dunno, I can't really see 'em any more, though I thought the first record was brilliant. I don't really like rock as in heavy rock, glamour rock - all the stuff you see on MTV. I don't like Extreme, no. I think they're really crap. False, and just pub rock which is the worst. I like Nine Inch Nails... Intastella, they've got some good ideas. The Primal Scream record's great. I've seen Manic Street Preachers three times ? they're really good, they've got a lot of spirit.
"I spend all my money on records. Virtually all of it. Small Faces, The Velvet Underground, New Order, I also like Lee 'Scratch' Perry and that Adrian Sherwood record and Bunny Wailer… Loads of stuff. Like World of Twist - their record's pretty good. It's a bit hit and miss though. "That's what makes a group good, hit and miss. Bob Dylan - seven years of his were really shit and then the later stuff was really good. There's something really good about being shit sometimes, makes you appreciate the good stuff."
Are you worried Blur have stolen your audience?
"You make me feel dead old! Like we've been around for ages. We've got a five year auto destruction limit anyway. If it lasts that long... I don't even know if we're big anywhere to be honest. We've never been stupid enough to believe that we're gonna last forever. I think we're just this small group who make brilliant records and who've got a decent perspective."
Meaning?
"We do things our own way. It's like, the bloke who does the marketing stuff and the promotions bloke at Beggars Banquet and our manager were saying, Do a single and a handful of dates and then release an album and do a few more dates (disdainfully). Like everyone else does. And we'd just get a perverted pleasure out of watching people's faces go "argh", so we'd go, We're going to tour and play the Royal Albert Hall with six new songs and we're not going to play 'The Only One I Know'. Which is what we did, in June. Except we did end up playing it, but we threw it in about fourth so no one'd notice it."
This vaguely hysterical way of going about things is all part of what Tim and his chums call "the punk ethic". They are all subscribers to this particular doctrine, which involves doing the opposite of what people expect and taking very seriously such issues as attitude, roots and, ahem, not selling out.
"I still believe in the punk ethic and attitude," he admits. "The anything's-possible anyone-can-do-it thing... Wire were the perfect punk group because they couldn't play a note but they were good. And Joy Division as well."
And how are you similar?
"The Charlatans have got a belief," he blazes, his breath smoking in the freezing air. "The belief of not selling yourself, that the music will overcome. You know what I'm saying? So we don't go out and do every-fucking-body. Every interview going, TV shows... We just try and keep it like, vibey. You run out of things to say when you do too many interviews. And you've got to have something to say.
"It's a gut feeling really." He sighs, shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and tries to explain. "Not prostituting yourself. The reason we signed to Beggars is because we thought they were the naffest label going, haha. And to have a really important group on the naffest label is a really good combination. We weren't there to be sold as a product, we weren't a commodity. And they saw that. They saw us a group full of really exciting ideas that were too good to be prostituted. You know what I mean? You know what I'm saying?"
He's quiet for a moment, then suddenly, earnestly...
"Do you think people understand that The Charlatans don't like ... go for it? You know? People think we're snotty, or arrogant, but we're not. We just don't give ourselves up that easily. We're not a commodity. There are easy ways to get your record played, or your video played ... but then you're just a product. We've just got belief. We always say we'll save it for the next time because we think there is going to be a next time."
So things like 'Me In Time' not doing so well don't bother you?
"No it doesn't. Not me personally. I think someone in the group didn't like it. Well, Martin didn't want it released at all. But things sort of work on a vote system. It's a bit of a weird one 'Me In Time', a bit off the planet, a bit straightish, but I like the guitars on it. I don't know, it was just a consolidation song in a way. Just because we wanted somethingout in 1991.
I think it's really good, personally. It could have sounded better but the song's alright. We've got better stuff, though. I don't know, sometimes Britain don't deserve ya ...
Are your fans now sporting crisp new Ride T-shirts?
"No, but it's healthy if they are. We're not worried about things like fashion or hype. The songs in the end will prove to be bigger than a fashion. I just know the songs will overtake the hype."
What if they don't? Tim shrugs his coat-hanger shoulders.
"Well, they will. They will."